


Captain, My Captain

by sheepyshavings



Category: Holby City
Genre: AU, F/F, Superheros, WWII, bashing nazis!, bernie being both admiringly heroic and also terrible with ladies!, historically inaccurate wartime activities, minor depictions of violence, ric griffin getting a great stand-in as howard stark, serena's snark!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9582947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepyshavings/pseuds/sheepyshavings
Summary: AKA the Captain America AU no one asked for but I wrote anyway





	1. Do you want to kill Nazis?

**Author's Note:**

> That's it, that's the fic. It's Captain America written with Bernie as Cap and Serena as Peggy Carter. Presented in the spirit of the Holby Universe, wildly AU otherwise.
> 
> Muchas gracias to delightfullyambiguous for lending a second set of eyes.
> 
> Thanks for joining me on this magical journey. Enjoy the camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for some casual antisemitism at the beginning of this chapter

“Don’t you dare be late.”

“You know, I still don’t know how to dance.

“I’ll show you how, just be there.”

“You’ll have the band play something slow. I’d hate to step on your-“

The cold only takes a second to kick in. Everything goes black.

-

 

The ward is busy, as per usual. Everyone is rushing about, screaming things across the room over the sound of patients crying, whining, and joining in the screaming. Someone has just come in with their ear cut off and is bleeding all over the sheets, causing the patient in bed one to lapse back into a panic attack.

Just another day at Holby.

“Miss Wolfe, can you grab more tea from the back room?”

Bernie Wolfe whips herself around to see Guy Self standing at a patient’s bedside across the room. She’s already got a stack of papers to bring up to AAU on the third floor, and she hasn’t got time to _make tea for the consultant of a ward she doesn’t even work on._

“Can you get someone else to, please? I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

Guy rolls his eyes. “It’ll only take a second. Besides, I’m already beyond booked and we haven’t had a decent brew for days.”

Bernie take a deep breath and sets the papers down on the nearest desk. Her feet are aching from running errands up and down the hospital stairs all day, socks falling down and crumpling in the most uncomfortable way against the arch of her sole. Her back screams at her every time she makes a stop, the sudden halt enough time for the discomfort to make itself known.

They’d gotten a legion of wounded from a trolley accident the town over that morning. The overspill from St. James had proven to be a killer on the staff and, even with everyone on call in the ward, Bernie finds herself doing menial tasks for the surgeons.

“I’ll be back in a bit. And it’s _Nurse_ Wolfe, please.

She grabs the papers back when Guy isn’t looking and sneaks out the back stairwell to go down up AAU before rummaging through ration boxes for tea. Of all the things that were of current importance, tea was very low down on Bernie’s list when people were bleeding out all over the floor of the hospital.

AAU is faring about as well as the rest of the wards, chaos spilling over into the stairwell as Raf rushes past her and nearly knocks her against the wall.

“Busy day?” she asks.

“Sorry, didn’t see you coming there.” Raf pauses for a moment on the top stair to look back at Bernie. “Absolute hell in there, it is. Haven’t seen it this busy in months.”

Bernie shrugs. “So life goes. Guy Self has got me making tea for him, of all things.”

Raf’s face morphs into the same, concerned look it always does when he takes offense on her behalf.

“What, is he gonna have you cleaning out bed pans next when you’re perfectly capable of doing something useful?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Although,” Bernie lowers her voice, “it would be nice to see him taking out the bed pans for once, and I doubt he’d even know how to do it. Imagine Guy spilling piss all over himself. That’s something I’d pay to see.”

Bernie lets out a bark of laughter and Raf nudges her arm, a smile spreading across his face.

“I think we’d all pay good money to see that. I have to run, but Dom’s waiting for those papers.

“Oh, get on with it then,” Bernie says, and waves as Raf descends into the stairwell.

It’s loud on AAU as she steps onto the ward. She doesn’t see Dom immediately; there are too many people rushing about and the number of nurses and doctors in scrubs makes it impossible to discern who’s who. She enters the fray.

Machines are beeping everywhere, and Bernie is careful to avoid tripping over fallen instruments, tissues (used and unused), and an unexpected toy car. She’s narrowly dodging a stranded IV when it catches her ear.

“I’m not letting a Jew operate on me.”

Bernie’s heart skips a beat and she halts. The words have come from the bed up to her left. A man, barely older than she, is propped against a sore excuse for a pillow, hands crossed over his chest like a petulant child. Sacha Levy stands at his bedside holding a chart. His face is screwed up into the most painful smile Bernie thinks she has ever seen.

She forgets the papers in her hand and closes the distance between herself and the bed.

“Excuse me, but would you like to repeat that?”

The man glances up at her, giving her a once over with a smirk plastered on his face. Up close, Bernie sees that his left arm is gaping with a nasty looking gash from the shoulder to the elbow, pieces of debris almost indistinguishable from the mess of flesh and blood. His face isn't much better, abrasions littering his cheeks.

Sacha looks up at Bernie and gives her a look that pleads for her to stay out of this.

She has never been good at staying out of things.

“I said I didn’t want a Jew operating on me. And who are you?”

Sacha reaches out and puts a hand on Bernie’s arm. She tenses up like a board.

“It's alright, Bernie.”

Bernie scoffs and nudges the injured man on his good arm.

“I asked who you were,” she says.

The man adjusts himself in the bed, wincing as his arm shifts. “None of your business, love. How about you go ask the boss man to send another doctor and I’ll wait here, no complaints?”

“How about you shut it or I’ll cut your arm off myself?” Bernie’s voice is steely, a tone she reserves only for the occasion when she can feel her gut twist into acute rage. The other nurses call it The Major, a dire warning for anyone on the receiving end.

Sacha lets go of Bernie’s arm and takes a step back. Bernie bristles as the man breaks into a grin.

“They got all sorts in this hospital, huh? So busy they’re gonna let a woman operate on me now. I’d almost rather have the Jew.”

Bernie vaguely hears Sacha let out a burst of protest as she balls her hand into a fist and raises it up.

A set of hands wraps themselves around her wrists.

“Hey, mate, why don’t you piss off and shut your mouth?”

Bernie twists around and see’s Dom’s neck right at her eye level, the tiny scar on his throat filling her blurred vision.

“Who are you? You in charge of this hospital?” the man asks. He shrinks a bit in the bed at the sight of Dom, maroon scrubs covered in flecks of blood shades darker than the fabric.

“Someone who’s gonna make sure you lose your arm if you don’t keep your thoughts to yourself.”

The man looks like he has a witty retort hanging on his lips, but stays silent as Dom feints a quick step forward. Sacha purses his lips and sets his file down.

“I’m going to see if the patient in bed six is prepped for surgery.” He slides by Bernie and Dom, whispering a quiet _thank you_ into Bernie’s ear as he passes.

Bernie shakes Dom off, gathering the papers she’d dropped earlier in her lapse of professional judgment. (Professional judgment be damned, she’d do it again in a heartbeat.) Dom follows her to a more secluded area of the ward, both in silence.

“You just don’t give up, do you?” Dom says the minute they’re out of earshot of the patients. “You’re going to get yourself shunted if you keep that up.”

“I’m not going to stand by while a _vastly talented surgeon_ is talked down upon by some pathetic leech.”

Dom raises his hands in mock surrender. “I appreciate the fervor, Miss Wolfe. But sometimes I think you like fighting.”

“ _Nurse_ Wolfe, please. If it can’t be doctor, at least give me the dignity of getting the title correct.”

“Pardon me, Nurse Wolfe. We appreciate all of your services down here on AAU, I assure you. Now-“ Dom snatches the papers from Bernie’s hands. “-let’s take a look at those reports. And I’ll make sure to check in on Sacha later,” he adds, noticing Bernie’s frown. “He’s too nice to say anything about it otherwise.”

“Thank you. And you’re welcome.”

“Thank you very much, oh great and wonderful Bernie Wolfe, for bestowing this gift upon us.”

Bernie crosses her arms and laughs. “Oh, quiet. You know I’d rather be doing this than making Guy Self tea.”

Dom hums in agreement as he flips through the documents and scans the information, his eyes squinting in the dim light of the single bulb above their heads. It’s only after he turns to the last page that Bernie realizes her mistake.

“Ha!” Dom lifts the page high above his head as she darts out a hand to grab it.

“Damn you! Give that back.”

Dom looks up at the paper one more time before lowering it enough for her to snatch it out of his grip.

“How many times is this?” Dom asks.

She remains silent, eyebrows knitting together in an effort to ignore the cheeky look Dom is giving her.

“Five,” she mutters under her breath.

“And _Portsmouth_ ,” Dom continues, ignoring the way Bernie tries to bore a hole through his head with her stare. “You know it’s illegal to lie on your enlistment form.”

She doesn’t reply, following after Dom as he tucks the papers into his pockets and moves back onto the main floor. He shouts commands to nurses throughout the room and she follows him in silence. The air between them has shifted, and it isn’t until they’re outside Dom’s office that she speaks.

“Have you gotten your orders yet?” She tries to mask the way her voice raises into a falsetto from her usual timbre, but Dom catches her eye and she fails.

“The one-oh-seventh.” Dom seems to be at a loss of what to do with his hands and keeps twitching his fingers at his side. “We ship out in two days.”

Bernie stares at the tile on the floor, notices the way someone has mislaid them against the wall.

“Best of luck,” she says, clipped. “I, uh, had better get on with Mr. Self’s tea order then.”

She turns to go, measuring the steps to the stairwell. Ten tiles.

“Are you coming to the Expo tonight?” Dom calls after her.

The door to the stairwell closes with a loud clang. He sighs.

Later, the man with the bloodied arm “accidentally” misses his second dose of local anesthetic.

-

 

Bernie is, in fact, going to the Expo, but not with Dom. Not with anyone other than herself for that matter.

She stands in her bedroom, clothes haphazardly thrown into a pile on her left, an unmade bed to her right. Aprons coated in the blood of more people than she cares to imagine take their own separate pile in the back corner, an extra chore since the hospital’s industrial washing machines had gone on the fritz the month earlier. The air smells like tinned beans and smoke, the result of a less-than-successful attempt at cooking when the stove hadn’t turned on that morning.

Bernie studies herself in the full length mirror propped against the peeling wallpaper. The mirror had been a gift from her mother when she graduated medical school. Three, four years ago now? There’s only a small pull in her heart when she thinks of her parents. It gets better with time.

During her stint as tea-waitress earlier she had snuck the widest bandages she could find out of the hospital supply closet. She turns on her heel to look at her chest, almost concave with the bandage looped around it. It may be the first time she feels grateful to be born so ill-endowed. (She pats her chest twice and purses her lips. Probably the only time it will come in handy.)

She thanks her height as well, another aspect of herself she’s never been too keen on. Gangly Berenice Wolfe, the _bean sprout_ to all of her primary school peers. All wiry limbs and skin so fair and papery you could see all the veins in her body like a network of rivers. She’d always stood a head above the boys, still towering over some of them once puberty had hit and turned most of them into hulking gorillas. All puberty did for Bernie was cause her already-elongated body to gain a few inches on all sides and her cheekbones to become more pronounced on her face. Her mother called her an “unconventional beauty.”

Bernie likes her eyes, at least.

There’s a pair of trousers in her hands, held up in front of her like a trophy. She shakes them out and slips into them. A worn blazer hangs on the corner of the mirror, and she shrugs it on over her button-down, arms getting stuck in a snag on the inside. She’d borrowed it from Raf, securing his secrecy over penalty of death.

_“Penalty of death,” she reiterated, shoving the blazer into her bag._

_Raf had thrown his hands up. “You’ve got my word, boss.”_

It fits her almost perfectly, except her shoulders where the material sags and folds upon itself.

“Dammit,” she mutters, looking around her room for something suitable. Her eyes land on the pile of clothes, unbloodied, which happens to include a few dishtowels. She picks them up, sniffs them gingerly, and then stuffs them inside the blazer.

 _Better,_ she thinks, turning around once in front of the mirror.

-

 

Bernie feels herself sweat through the dish towels (which have conveniently slipped into her armpits) before she even gets to the front entrance of the Expo. It’s only by sheer force of will that she shoves through the ticket booth and manages not to lose her hat.

“Hey, move it,” someone says, practically ramming Bernie into the dirt as she enters the fairgrounds. She catches her balance and turns to see a man roughly a head taller than her with a woman on his arm. Bernie wouldn’t go so far as to say he looks a fright, but he does have an uncanny resemblance to a rabid dog.

“Watch it yourself, areshole.”

She’s not sure if it’s the trousers or her messily cropped hair that give her the confidence to say it out loud, but the words slip from her lips before she can decide if it’s a wise idea. She stands up straighter and squares her shoulders. The dish towel begins to slide down her left arm. It makes her feel a tad less intimidating.

“Excuse me?” A dribble of spit leaves the man’s lips.

“I said, watch it, _arsehole.”_

-

 

This is how Bernie Wolfe finds herself flung backward against a dumpster just out of sight of the ticket booth. Oh, and it does sting, and she’ll certainly have a lump to answer with tomorrow.

That doesn’t stop her from letting her vision settle from fuzzy to just-able-to-make-out-shapes before getting up and taking a swing.

Her fist hits the man square in the chest, likely by sheer luck that he wasn’t expecting Bernie to fight back.

God, it hurts her knuckles and makes them throb in a way that she can only imagine means something may have fractured. Her mind drifts to a medical diagram of the bones of the hand. Middle phalange? Throbbing. Proximal phalange? Possibly broken.

Then comes the second punch from the man, this one right between her larynx and chin. It sends her reeling, the pain in her knuckles fading immediately against the eruption of sheer agony spilling from her throat.

This time, it takes her a good number of seconds and measured, deep breaths before she pulls herself off the ground. Her vision never goes quite back into focus, the edges of her eyes glowing like someone is shining a torch down onto her face

“I could do this all day,” she slurs. Somewhere, in the rational part of her mind currently smothered by impulsivity and annoyance, she thinks she may have a concussion.

The man with the rabid dog face raises his fists, and she knows he’s not the kind of man to stop hitting when his opponent is down. By some miraculous shred of rationality, Bernie is able to blindly reach around for something to shield herself. The man’s punch misses her by inches, instead meeting the flimsy metal of the bin lid clutched in Bernie’s grasp. It rattles horribly and makes her ears ring like a gunshot had just gone off.

“Hey! Pick on someone your own size.”

Someone grabs rabid dog man by the back of his shirt and lands a skillful jab to his jaw, sending the man stumbling away in a silhouette Bernie can barely make out against the bright back lighting. She can’t see her savior between the light and her unsteady vision, but the voice is familiar.

She sinks from her half-squat to sit painfully on the unforgiving dirt, head beginning to pulse in earnest now that the spike of adrenaline disappears. She groans and brings a hand up to feel around her temples. At the touch of something hot and sticky, she groans again and leans back against the dumpster. Definitely blood.

“Are you alright?” the mystery man asks. “Here, let me take a look at that. I’m a doctor, so I might be able to help.”

Bernie removes her hand, now covered in a mixture of blood, dirt, and sweat.

“Dom?”

Her mystery man startles, and now caught in the glow of the lamps, Bernie can make out his widened eyes and the small scar down his neck.

“Christ, is that you, Bernie?”

He looks rather good cleaned up, shirt tucked in and hair slicked into a smart wave. It’s a far cry from vomit-covered scrubs and bloodied hands.

“The one and only.” Bernie tries to crack a smile, but winces as she moves to lift herself off the ground. Dom extends an arm and she grabs it, muttering her thanks.

“Your head,” he starts, reaching out a hand. He lifts up her cap, dropping it as soon as it’s off.

“What did you do to your hair?” he gasps, then, noticing the injury, gasps again.

Bernie snatches her hat back and fits it snugly over her hair.

“None of your business,” she says coolly.

Dom looks her up and down for the first time.

“You look like a bloke!”

Bernie shushes him, glancing back at the girl standing just a ways off, neck craning toward them. When Bernie meets her eyes, the girls flinches and looks away.

“Who’s that?” Bernie demands.

“Don’t change the subject on me, Bernie. I’m not that one dressed up in drag, getting into fistfights at the World Expo.”

Bernie grudgingly allows Dom to remove her hat again and look at the head wound. It still pulses against her head, a remote heartbeat reminding her that she is indeed alive, although a bit worse for wear than when she’d arrived.

“It’s superficial, bleeding has all but stopped.” Dom pushes away some of her hair and touches the skin around the wound. “How do you feel?”

“Lovely,” Bernie says. “Like a bouquet of roses.” She doesn’t think it’s a concussion. The ringing in her head has already dissipated, her vision is clear enough to see the lines of concern wrinkling Dom’s forehead, and the world is no longer spinning around her.

Dom finding her here is making her a bit queasy, though, but that’s beside the point.

“You really do like fighting, don’t you?”

Bernie crosses her arms. “I had him on the ropes.”

“Sure you did. Now, are you going to tell me what this is all about?” He gestures vaguely at Bernie’s outfit.

She’s tempted to lie, just bid Dom farewell and find the damned registration booth in peace, but Dom is already worried about her head as it is. And what would she tell him? _Oh, I fancy a bit of drag now and again. Funny how that never came up before._

So much for discretion.

“I was going to try and register again. Give it another go, a bit differently this time.” She keeps her voice very low, glancing around to make sure no onlookers have come to see what the fuss is about.

Dom looks at her, silently, then lets out a short laugh.

“As a _man?_ Bernie, are you mad? They’ll find you out quicker than a wink.”

“Well, maybe they won’t,” she counters. She feels one of the dish towels make its final descent from her sleeve and crumple into a heap on the dirt.

“You’re ridiculous,” Dom says. He shakes his head and laughs again. “I can’t believe you sometimes.”

Bernie picks up the dish towel and shakes it off before stuffing it into her pocket.

“Well, all you have to do is keep your mouth shut tonight and we’ll be fine.”

Dom raises his hands in surrender. He looks a bit like a lost puppy, Bernie thinks. She’s glad he only stands a few inches taller than her, and that she’s got nearly five years on him. It makes her feel less like a fool when he introduces them to the girl as “his friend Bernie,” complete with a rough smack on the back.

The girl, Daisy, keeps looking up at Bernie with big, brown eyes as they walk around the fairgrounds. Every so often, she stands on tip-toe and whisper something in Dom’s ear. He whispers back, glancing over at Bernie and smiling widely.

Bernie does her best to ignore it, squaring her shoulders and instead focusing her ears on the cacophony coming from the booths around them. It helps, but she still feels a blush creep up her neck at the conspiring happening next to her.

_Hot roasted peanuts!_

_World’s tallest man, towering high above the average person!_

_England’s most beloved industrialist, Ric Griffin!_

“It’s starting!” Daisy squeals, grabbing Dom by the arm and dragging him into a large crowd gathering around the main stage. Bernie curses at him when Dom pulls her in tow, regardless of the apology in his eyes. _Half-assed apology,_ she thinks.

“I’ll let you off to play hero soon as this is done, but the least you could do is stay with your best mate for one show.”

“Fine, but I swear if Daisy keeps twittering on to you in secret-“

“She wants to know if you’re seeing anyone,” Dom interjects, his voice dropping as his eyes glance over to Daisy, standing on tiptoe to look over the heads in front of her. He smiles when Bernie’s face begins to burn. Bernie feels her stomach flip, a burst of butterflies expanding into her chest.

“She’s got a friend coming later, thinks you’re awfully smart.”

Bernie doesn’t have an answer for that. She’s saved from further embarrassment by the parting of the lush velvet curtains on the stage.

“Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Ric Griffin!”

The crows roars as a rather suave looking man enters the stage from the left, waving enthusiastically at the crowd. His hair is combed into a smooth wave, plastered into place by mousse that shines in the glare of the spotlights. Bernie can tell from her spot among the masses that he has exceptionally white teeth; they glimmer as he smiles widely. A trimmed mustache tops his lip.

There’s something large and bulbous in the middle of the stage, shrouded by red velvet that matches the parted curtains. Four fit young women in little outfits that remind Bernie of lingerie stand around the mystery object.

Ric Griffin saunters across the stage and plants a kiss on the cheek of the announcer. The woman- the girl- is no older than eighteen, and she blushes profusely and skitters to the side of the stage and lets Mr. Griffin take full attention of the audience.

 _Not that anyone is looking anywhere else_ thinks Bernie. The crowd is practically drooling over the man, someone she’s only heard of in passing newspaper headlines and break room gossip.

“Welcome!” booms Ric Griffin’s voice. He pauses, dramatically and surveys his audience. “What if I told you that in just a few short years, your automobile won’t have to touch the ground at all?”

Bernie will admit that her attention is piqued when the announcer skips back onstage and pulls the velvet sheet off the monolith in the center of the stage.

It’s a car, a fairly new model if Bernie can see the details correctly. It’s shiny, polished, practically haloed under the lights.

The audience takes in a collective gasp when the four women by the automobile bend down and pull the wheels right off, rolling them away until they disappear into the wings. Ric Griffin watches this all with a smirk, then walks over to a switch on the wall.

“Thank you, ladies.” He nods as the women leave, then turns to the audience and flips the switch.

“With Griffin robotic reversion technology, you’ll be able to do just that.”

The air fills with a luminous buzz and Bernie’s hair begins to frizz out under her hat. She reaches up to flatten it back down, and the other dishtowel lands crumpled at her feet. She stuffs it into her pocket and stares at her shoes, the excitement of the crowd becoming a distant hum in her ears. They’re her own shoes, plain black and flat from grueling shifts at the hospital. The leather is heavily scuffed, revealing whatever mystery material lays underneath in off-white patches.

Bernie misses the way car magically begins to hover off the ground, misses the way Dom and his date whoop and cheer with the rest of the audience. They don’t notice her furrow her brow and slip back through the crowd, disappearing as the car splutters and crashes back onto the stage with a deafening clang. The laughter around her and Ric Griffin’s words simmer in the static of her ears.

“I did say a few years, right?”

She finally breaks free from the sea of bodies and finds herself staring at the registration center. It stands, no more than thirty feet away, flanked by banners and curious passers-by.

Bernie doesn’t read any of the posted signs; she’s read them all hundreds of times. The form is folded into a little square in her pocket, no doubt ruffled by the hours of her fingers turning it over and over.

There’s a well-trodden beige carpet at the entrance of the little building. She takes a few steps in, the carpet a welcome change from the dust and dirt outside. There’s a photo collage along the wall, black and white images of soldiers in trenches, blurred images of figures with machine guns running across landscapes mottled with explosions. Bernie touches the images, wondering if by some chance one of the little blurs is her father.

There’s a life-size poster of a soldier in combat fatigues at the end of the hall, his face cut out with a mirror left in its wake. She stands in front of it, straightens her back, and looks at herself. There’s a bloom of purple crawling from her left cheekbone towards her ear, almost black right in the center. Her hair mercifully covers the lump on her head. She tries to scratch away the dried blood, picking it from her fingernails and flicking it onto the ground as she does.

“You really going to do this?”

Bernie jerks her hand away from her face and turns to find Dom standing with his arms crossed. She smiles.

“Well, it _is_ a fair. I’m going to try my luck.”

“As who?” Dom asks rather loudly. He looks around and takes a step closer to Bernie. “Bernie from York? They’ll catch you. Or worse, they’ll actually take you.”

“Look, I know you think I can’t do this-“

“This isn’t some back alley, Bernie. It’s a war!”

Bernie steps up next to Dom and shoves her finger into his chest.

“I know this is a war. You don’t have to tell me.”

He takes a step back.

“Why are you so keen to fight? There are so many important jobs you could be doing here.”

“What am I going to do, stay at the hospital?”

“Yes!”

“And keep cleaning out bedpans? Fetch Guy Self’s tea?”

Dom huffs and his face relaxes, the fight draining from him. Bernie feels herself soften. It’s a shame she’s always been so fond of Dom, else she’d have snapped at him far too many times to count. It might have saved some of the F1s from getting the brunt of her wrath in the long run.

“Why not?” Dom asks.

“I’m not going to sit in Holby, Dom. I’m not going to spend my life at the whim of doctors when they damn well know I can do better.”

Bernie takes the registration form out of her pocket and shakes it out.

“There are people laying down their lives and I’ve got no right to do any less than them. At least I might be able to help someone out there.”

“But-“

“This isn’t about me. This is about all of us, and I’m worth no less because I’m a woman with a bad back.”

“Right because you’ve got nothing to prove.” It’s said in jest, and to Bernie’s surprise, Dom steps into her space and wraps her into a tight hug. She stiffens.

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

Bernie lets out a bark of laughter as Dom releases her. She gives him a nudge with her shoulder, smiling when he grunts and returns the gesture. "How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."

“You’re a punk.”

“Jerk.”

Dom looks sheepish all of a sudden, and it dawns on Bernie that she may never see him again after tomorrow. “Be careful,” she says. Her words catch in her throat. She would be loathe to cry in front of Dom, in front of the crowds milling about, so she sucks in a deep breath instead.

Dom begins to retreat from the registration center, giving Bernie a final once-over.

“Give ‘em hell.”

“Don’t win the war until I get there,” Bernie calls after him. He turns one more time, saluting her, and disappears into the fairgrounds like a puff of smoke lost among the throngs of people.

She lets out a sigh and looks down at the paper still hanging in her hand. No time like the present.

-

 

The exam room smells like the hospital. She’s never been in a military exam room, usually getting no further than the preliminary screening before being laughed at and shooed away.

A woman coming into an army office, a woman with a history of a spinal fracture and scoliosis, didn’t even warrant legal charges of multiple applications. Bernie got a few condescending smiles, some sympathetic, and an occasional slap on the backside.

She purses her lips. A nurse had come in earlier to check Bernie’s vitals, poking and prodding her and ticking boxes off a clipboard. It’s odd, being the patient. Bernie has taken more heart rates than she can count, including her own. She can’t remember the last time someone else’s fingers had pressed along her wrist.

The curtain between the room and bustling waiting area slides open, the metal rings shrieking on the pole. One of the recruitment doctors slips into the room and leans over to the nurse. Bernie strains to hear without moving from her seated position on the lumpy examination table. She’s getting tired of people whispering to each other while she’s right next to them.

“Wait here,” is all the doctor says before herding the nurse out of the room.

“Is there a problem?” Bernie asks. She keeps her voice remarkable steady for the way her pulse quickens. The doctor turns to her.

“Just wait here.”

Bernie’s hands clench at her sides, a cold, clammy feeling taking them over. There’s a poster on the wall to her left. She can’t make out the finer text, but there’s something in large, bold letters about lying on an enlistment form.

It doesn’t help the sweat building at the base of her skull, and she begins to realize that Dom may have been right. Reality is a cold shower when the adrenaline wears off.

Bernie is halfway through throwing her arms in the blazer sleeves when the curtain opens again. She freezes, a deer in the headlights, a fugitive under arrest, whatever else feels the apt to describe the dread that trickles down her spine.

An enlistment officer comes in first, and Bernie stares at him, feels her mouth hang open in a wordless plea. Her mouth clicks shut when another, unexpected man comes in behind the officer.

He’s bearded, impressively so. A greying white fuzz adorns his upper lip, falling down the side of his face well below the chin. He wears a tweed suit with a noticeably wrinkled shirt underneath.

She does not feel threatened by this strange man. His face is warm, soft against the rigidity of the rest of the room.

“Thank you,” the bearded man says, turning to the enlistment officer. The officer leaves.

“So,” the man says, pivoting again to look at Bernie over a pair of small, ovular classes. “You want to kill some Nazis?”

Bernie shifts on the table. The man has an unmistakable accent.

“Excuse me?” She’s not sure she’s heard the man correctly, his tone carrying a lighthearted lilt she doesn’t expect in her current position. The man sticks out his hand, holding it up until Bernie gives it a limp shake.

“Dr. Elliot Hope.” He drops Bernie’s hand. “I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve.”

“Bernie Wolfe,” she says without thinking. Dr. Hope sits down at a stool and starts paging through the manila folder than holds her file.

 _What in the world is the Strategic Scientific Reserve?_ Bernie wonders. _Is this the international police?  
_

“Where are you from?” she blurts, though she knows the answer already.

Dr. Hope looks up from his browsing, lifts his glasses higher on his nose.

“Stepney, in the East End of London. Before that, Germany. Does this trouble you?”

Bernie quickly shakes her head “No, of course not. My grandparents, they came here from Germany before the Great War.”

“I see.” Dr. Hope continues leafing through the pages on his lap. “Where are you from, _Miss_ Berenice Wolfe? Mm? Is it Cambridge? Or Portsmouth?”

Bernie’s heart both falls into her stomach and speeds up until she feels tachycardic.

“Five exams in five cities.”

“That, that might not be the right file,” she mutters. It sounds pathetic.

“No, it’s not the exams I’m interested in, Miss Wolfe. It’s not that you’re a woman.” He pauses and smiles at Bernie.

Bernie feels a laugh bubble in her throat and choke before it leaves her mouth. It feels like there’s some cruel punchline coming and the humor falls flat.

“It’s the five times,” Dr. Hope continues. He shuts the file quietly and sets it aside. “But you didn’t answer my question. Do you want to kill Nazis?”

Bernie sits up a little straighter.

“Is this a test?”

“Yes.”

There’s a long pause that smothers the air in the room, filling the small space until Bernie thinks her ears are going to pop.

“I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t like a bully, and I don’t care where they’re from.”

“Well,” says Dr. Hope, after another long pause, “there are already so many big men fighting in the war. Maybe what we need now is a woman, huh?”

Like someone has just lit a touch paper inside her, a small flame of hope sparks in Bernie’s chest.

“I can only offer you a chance.”

She stands immediately.

“I’ll take it.”

Dr. Hope holds out her file, smiling. “Congratulations, soldier.”

Bernie's heart beats wildly in her chest as she opens the folder, her registration form sitting on top. Her name is still scrawled in messy letters over the standard type. Next to it in bright red letters is a stamp.

_Accepted._

-

 

Serena Campbell is astronomically tired. She’s been sat at her desk for well over five hours, the stack of papers on her left finally shorter than the stack on her right, if only by a small margin.

She drums her fingers on the wood next to an open folder. The lamplight catches her nails; her polish has chipped away on the thumb. One more thing she’ll have to do before she can get some rest.

 _Marcus Dunn_ , _20, Holby_

He’s a viable candidate on paper, excellent physical exam, previous military training. She glances over the rest of the file before tossing it into the “yes” pile for the next round of approvals.

It’s not that there haven’t been a handful of excellent options. The SSR had handpicked all of them, after all. But nothing impresses her, no file has been opened and screamed _perfect_.

Perhaps, they’ll never find perfect.

Serena startles when the phone blares to life next to her. She gathers the papers she almost knocked over and lifts the phone from its stand.

“Agent Campbell speaking.”

“I hope you are having a restful evening.” Dr. Hope’s voice fills her ear and she lets her shoulders drop.

“About as restful as any evening this week has been. And do get on with it, I’d rather like to get to bed before dawn tonight.”

Serena edges another file off the left hand side of the desk and nudges it open. She begins to scan the title as Dr. Hope’s voice continues.

“I believe I’ve found one more candidate.”

She sighs heavily, making sure it’s heard over the line.

“I’d like to remind you that we already have a pool of candidates.”

If the files could jeer at her, they would.

“I can have the file in your hands tomorrow, no later than evening.”

Serena pinches the bridge of her nose and sets the paper down. “Does Hanssen know about this?”

“He’s not happy, but it’s been cleared.”

That catches her interest.

“If it’s only the one, and _I mean just the one_ , I’ll take a look at it tomorrow. But I’ll burn anything else you send my way.”

“I expect no less from you.” She can hear his smile over the line.

“Goodnight, Dr. Hope.”

“Goodnight, Serena. Make sure to rest sometime tonight.”

She hangs up the phone with a scowl. Her eyes wander over the mess on the desk, assess the substantial amount of work she has yet to do, and ignores the niggling headache forming behind her eyelids.

That file had damn well be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Serena in chapter two. :) Questions? Concerns? Wondering why I decided to take on this beast? Leave a comment below!
> 
> I'm all for constructive criticism/pointing out grammatical errors. Do not be afraid to do so!


	2. The Gates of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> only 3 days late!

Handing in her resignation letter to Guy Self is one of the most satisfying things Bernie has ever done. He’s not even her direct supervisor, but she clears it with Raf beforehand, much to Raf’s amusement. 

“Leave effective immediately following this conversation,” she says. Her army-issue duffle bag is strung over one shoulder, making her walk very lop-sided. What’s left of her hair is tucked neatly under one of her nicer hats, curbing the gossip that would surely come if the staff caught wind of her poorly-shorn cut. 

Guy Self holds her letter very tensely, as one might hold a rejection letter from one’s dream job. He looks as if Bernie has just handed him a bag of live spiders; in theory, it comes very close. 

“I hope you can find someone to make your tea for you, Mr. Self. I’d hate for you to burn your hand.”

-

 

Her goodbyes are short, stinted, likely giving the entire staff the impression she’s never been more ready to leave them all behind for a train to a mysterious branch of the armed forces. Bernie just isn’t very good at emoting to other people beyond anger and mild annoyance. She startles Morven when she actually bites the bullet and goes in for a hug. Morven cries a little bit, and this leaves Bernie at an impasse, her emotional vulnerability spent for the day. 

“I won’t be gone forever,” Bernie says, fishing a tissue from her pocket. 

“I know,” Morven says, “but I’d hate for you to-“ 

She doesn’t finish her sentence, taking the tissue from Bernie with a grateful look and blowing her nose very loudly. Morven’s husband had been killed in action earlier that year. Bernie doesn’t dwell on the hanging sentence much, her own mortality too abstract of a concept to wrap her head around. 

Dom would have something witty to say about thinking things through, but he’s currently en route to Italy and therefore can’t chastise her. 

Bernie surprises herself by how much she misses him already, and how much she’s going to miss her messy, infuriating hospital family. The jury is still out on Guy Self. She’s never considered him part of the family, perhaps the distant uncle who makes everyone uncomfortable at gatherings during the holidays. 

No, she won’t miss Guy Self very much. In fact, she hopes he burns his hand making tea.

-

 

Everyone thinks she’s going off with the RAMC to train nurses at a medical unit in London, always overshadowed by a chance they might have to go join the front lines. Bernie can’t remember if she specified Italy or Algeria. It doesn’t seem to matter much now, sitting on the train across from Dr. Hope. He’d met her at the station, carrying nothing but an unlit pipe and an ancient looking pocket watch, his glasses perched on his balding head as his eyes scanned the crowd. 

“Are you nervous?” he asks now. 

Bernie has been staring out the window at a flock of starlings circling above the meadows, whirling into a myriad of shapes against the setting sun. 

“Should I be?” 

Dr. Hope smiles at her.

She is nervous, a bit at least. It's an uncertain nervousness, plunging into an unknown pursuit so soon and without much time to process it all. It's like her brain hasn't caught up to her body yet, still floating somewhere along the halls of AAU. So she sits and watches the birds, waiting for the realization to hit her, that she, Bernie Wolfe, woman and certified trauma surgeon, is going into the army.

-

 

The facility is somewhere unspecified a few hours by train north. Bernie follows Dr. Hope from the platform to an unmarked vehicle waiting for them in the grassy lot beyond the tracks. The air is thick with smoke as the train lurches forward to continue its journey. Bernie’s foot gets stuck in the mud and she uses the momentum of her duffle bag to propel her forward into the gravel of the car park. 

“May I take your bag?” asks Dr. Hope, reaching out. Bernie hands it over, embarrassed at how light it is. She had received a notice at her apartment to pack any small personal belongings she wanted and a few changes of clothes to bring with her. The note had been attached to a brown paper-wrapped parcel that turned out to be a green canvas bag. She’d thrown in two skirts, a pair of trousers, three shirts, and four changes of pants. The shoe’s she’s wearing now are her only pair, on her feet instead of packed away. As for personal items, she’d scanned her room in the hopes of coming across something that pulled at her heartstrings. In the end, it meant putting one small, blurry picture of her parents into her compact and wrapping that in a dishtowel to keep it safe. 

Dr. Hope’s eyebrows raise as he takes the bag, but he says nothing. 

The car is more like an armored vehicle. The metal around the wheels is caked thick in mud, crusted on in chunks that turn to dust when Bernie taps her foot against the rubber tires. 

“A bit much, yes?” says Dr. Hope. Bernie shrugs. 

The driver is separated from them by a tinted back window, like an upgraded taxi cab, or, Bernie imagines, like a police car bringing a high-profile criminal to prison. She takes a seat in the back as Dr. Hope stows her bag in the back and walks around to talk to the driver. She hears them rattle back in forth in what she thinks must be German, and soon after the side door opens and Dr. Hope takes a seat next to her. 

“We should be there in about two hours, give or take depending on the roads.” He pulls out his unlit pipe and a pouch of tobacco. “Do you mind?” 

Bernie shakes her head and slides down the seat a bit. She closes her eyes as the engine revs and hums to a start, the smell of cherry tobacco permeating the small space. It makes her light-headed, and soon she dozes off as the vehicle takes them off to Camp Lehigh.

-

 

Bernie wasn’t told much before getting shipped out of Holby. The Strategic Scientific Reserve (or, the SSR as Dr. Hope keeps referring to it as) is a governmental agency created to combine specialized knowledge from the Allied countries in the hopes of ending the war, a covert gathering of the world’s best scientists, academics, strategists, and military experts. Dr. Hope won’t tell her much beyond that, and she’s tried to pry bits of information from him, both at the fair and on the train. 

She’s going in near-blind, all hope resting in a letter stamped with _accepted_ that she keeps folded in her coat pocket. All she has going for her is Dr. Hope had seen something in her no one had given a chance before. 

_“There’s no guarantee of anything big,” he says, sitting Bernie down outside the exam room. “This is just a chance. It won’t be easy.”  
_

_Bernie nods stupidly, her eyes fixed onto the paper like it’s plated in gold. She doesn’t look up but says, “It never is.”  
_

_“We’re looking for the right mix, a delicate balance of many things. You will not be alone, do you understand?”  
_

_She closes the file and nods slowly. “Is it a competition?”  
_

_Dr. Hope tilts his head and the edge of his lip quirks up. “Of sorts.”  
_

_“How do I win?”  
_

_He laughs._

_-_

Bernie is jolted awake as the car comes to an abrupt halt and the engine shuts off with an agitated hiss. She glances out the window and sees a black sky littered with stars. Astoundingly bright lights are affixed to the top of wooden structures the size of telephone poles, illuminating what Bernie thinks looks like a military camp right out of the advertisements. Low buildings are scattered around the perimeter, flanked by tents and cars like the one they’ve arrived in. There are larger vehicles, too, with what look like guns of various sizes and shapes bolted on the top. 

It dawns on Bernie all over again, that they’re in a war, and here she is in the middle of nowhere with a virtual stranger giving her life over to the whims of combat. 

A few men in white shirts jog off in the distance as they exit the car. 

“There’s a set of clothes for you in the bag,” Dr. Hope says. “The driver brought them for you.” He’s watching Bernie as she turns around in slow circles, letting her eyes adjust to the sharp contrast of the lights against the surrounding woods. 

“Do they know a woman will be in the mix?” 

“Do you want them to?” 

She thinks about it. It wouldn’t be much unlike medical school, masculine bravado and poorly made jokes at her expense. 

“I’m not sure,” she says slowly. “They may find out eventually.” A woman in the midst of an army training camp filled with young, sweaty men would be a shocker, to say the least. 

Dr. Hope drops Bernie’s bag at her feet and puts a hand on her shoulder. 

“You’re welcome to present yourself to them however you want. No one will find out from me.” He makes the motion of zipping his lips and then winks. 

She decides that Dr. Hope is a very good man. 

He leads her over to a large, low-ceilinged building that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the turn of the century. Even in the night, the sides are peeling away, a chip of paint coming off the door as Bernie turns the handle. 

“We choose to spend our funding on other, more pressing things,” she hears Dr. Hope say. And then, “It's late, and I still have a few things to do. I must be going, but I assume you can find your way from here?”

"I think I should be able to." Bernie pushes open the door and shrugs. Dr. Hope puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently.

"Goodnight, Berenice. I hope you rest well."

She gives him a tight-lipped smile and nods.

“Goodnight.” 

She feels a bit abandoned, alone in the dark in the middle of who-knows-where, but hadn't said anything, not wanting to keep Dr. Hope from his work. Instead, she watches Dr. Hope walk away into the heart of the camp. She stands in the threshold between the outside and the barracks, letting the breeze blow her fringe around, wincing as a hair gets caught in her eye. When he turns a corner and disappears behind a building, she goes inside. 

She can see the cots are full in the dim light coming from the frosted windows along the ceiling. There’s one open bed in the back she assumes is hers, and she’s thankful a spot that will draw the least amount of attention to herself. She eyes the men tucked into their cots around her and she walks quietly through the aisles. The air is rich with snores, an occasional grunt or cough interrupting the low hum. 

She changes under the cover of night, ever watchful of tuft of hair sticking out from the sheets in the cot next to her. She chooses to wear the army-issued clothes to bed to avoid having to change in the morning. Beyond tomorrow, she’ll have to figure out a more long-term plan. For now, her nerves are simmering just below a mild panic and the least she can do is plan one day at a time. 

Bernie pulls the standard white shirt over her bare chest and stuffs her traveling clothes into her bag. The shirt is softer than anything she’s ever owned, and her fingers run down the front, gathering the fabric at the bottom in her hand. She keeps her hand tightly fisted around the shirt as she lays down and pulls the blanket up to her chin. The cot is only marginally less comfortable than the bed at her apartment, creaking as she rolls onto her side. 

It’s a different kind of nighttime hum here. In Holby, it was the neighbour’s dog barking the bleating of a car horn at midnight, a shout in the distance.

Here, the tick of her bedside clock is replaced the low thrum of her heartbeat as she lays with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling and seeing nothing in the dim light. The beat of her chest feels so loud against the relative silence she worries she’ll wake the man next to her. She can hear crickets chirping outside, the cry of an unknown bird somewhere off in the woods. 

Bernie flips over and feels a yawn tumble from her throat. Her body is screaming for sleep after the long journey, her back reminding her of the two hours seated on the train as she wriggles to find a comfortable position. But her mind buzzes like a hive, each thought a bee whirring through the catacomb of her head. Sleep comes eventually, in fits, her dreams fleeting in quick images and choppy sounds. In the morning, she wonders if that’s what it’s like to die- an entire life passing before you in nothing but a flicker.

-

 

Most of the other soldiers don’t talk to her, or each other for that matter. It’s a small mercy when Bernie can barely function after a less-than-restful sleep and has to deal with a swath of men grunting and undressing in front of her first thing in the morning. Infinite thanks are sent to her past self for thinking to get dressed the night before. She’s no prude, but she doesn’t think being bare chested in front this particular group would be the most subtle way to introduce herself. Bernie does pull on a light jacket from her bag, which when buttoned up covers the small swell of her breasts entirely. The air isn’t cold, per se, but there’s no telling what her body will decide to do should she go braless in the white shirt. 

They eat breakfast in a mess hall along a table that sits ten men on each side. (Plus her, shuffled in at the end like the last sardine in a tin.) The food is acceptable, palatable even. The tea is less so, but she’s never been one to fuss over tea and now doesn’t seem like the right time to start, not when she’s sweating heavily under her coat the thought of someone striking up conversation with her. It turns out the only words she has to mutter are a quick thanks when someone hands her the tray of biscuits. It's as though everyone is a bit shy to talk, instead stuffing their faces in silence broken only by a burp and the clattering of trays against the tabletop. 

The biscuits are stale.

-

 

They’re queued up shoulder to shoulder in the midst of a large field outside after breakfast. Bernie quickly realizes that although she’s never had to think much of her height thus far, it’s becoming obvious she’s not built like the rest of the men. Most of them are _gargantuan._ She hadn’t noticed when they’d been hunched over the breakfast table, but now she feels dwarfed standing next to a man who is easily two heads taller than she. It calms her slightly to see that he looks just as nervous as she does, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Bernie feels an impulse to do the same, but shoves her hands in her pockets in lieu of drawing attention to herself. 

“Gentlemen, I’m Agent Campbell. I supervise all operations of this division.” The voice seems to come out of nowhere. 

Bernie snaps her head up and feels her heart clutch tightly in her chest. 

Agent Campbell strides up from… wherever she had been while Bernie was counting the rocks on the ground by her feet. She’s short, Bernie notices immediately; it’s a silly first thought, but it’s so obvious against the giants stood in front of her. She purses her lips, painted elegantly, and narrows her eyes at the line. Bernie can’t help but fixate the deep red of the lipstick against her pressed olive green uniform. It’s the only pop of color Bernie has seen since she arrived, like a spring flower burning through late winter snow. On her feet, she wears deep brown heels, a strange sight against the dirty black shoes all the soldiers have on. 

Agent Campbell smiles, and small lines gather around the edges of her eyes. She’s rather lovely to look at, Bernie finds herself thinking. Her hair, coiffed into a series of waves along the side of her head, the color of black tea against white china, is a style Bernie could never hope to pull off herself. She’d always opted to pull her own hair back in a simple tie, keeping it out of her face while on the ward. Now, it’s all but gone, shorn close to her head with a pair of kitchen scissors. 

Agent Campbell prowls up and down the line, her eyes unwavering as she assesses the men. She carries herself with a confidence that negates any height the men may have on her. 

“Alright, your Majesty. Who put a dame like you in charge?” 

It comes from someone a few soldiers down from Bernie and she can feel the bristle of the group as they collectively stiffen. Her own skin prickles in displeasure, her hands clenching in her pockets and a rush of heat coursing through her veins. Agent Campbell stops in her path and takes a few steps back to stand in front of the man who had spoken. Bernie inches forward and turns her head ever so slightly to get a better look. She sees a few of the soldiers do the same, their faces caught between amusement and shock. 

“What’s your name, soldier?” Agent Campbell asks. Her voice rolls off her tongue like silk. It sounds dangerous, a warning before the bite. 

The soldier tilts his head up, eyes resting on the top of her head. “Marcus Dunn, your Majesty.” 

“Step forward, Dunn.” 

Marcus Dunn looks to the other men in line and laughs, and, obeying the order, takes a step out of line. 

“Now put your right foot forward.” Agent Campbell remains poised in front of Dunn, her gaze never faltering. Bernie tries to read the look on her face, but it’s stoic, unreadable like a stone tablet in a foreign script. 

“Are we gonna dance? Because I’ve got a few moves you might like.” The lineup titters while Bernie cringes. 

Agent Campbell punches Dunn square in the jaw. 

It’s like art, the way Bernie sees his skin ripple in slow motion and his eyes roll back into his head before his knees give out and he crumples to the ground. He gets up almost immediately, face red as a beet while the other soldiers break into unfiltered laughter. Bernie hides her smile. Agent Campbell doesn’t look the slightest bit fazed, eyebrows raised as if to challenge anyone else to make a smart quip. 

The air fills with a rumble as an open-top vehicle stops behind Agent Campbell, dust kicking up as a man steps out. 

_Is everyone here bloody gigantic?_ Bernie thinks. The man is even taller than most of the soldiers, thin, and is wearing a brown bomber jacket buttoned up to the neck. He has a rather narrow face, strong nose, and a pair of aviator glasses covering his eyes. He's intimidating in a different way than Agent Campbell, his authority requiring no show of brute force to be known. 

“Agent Campbell.” He nods in her direction. She nods back, taking a step to the side to let him consider the men lined up before him. 

“Colonel Hanssen.” 

“I see you’re roughing up our men, that’s good. Dust yourself off, soldier.” Hanssen directs this at Dunn, who quickly brushes his hands over his dirtied trousers and then stands at attention. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Agent Campbell seems to let herself relax as Colonel Hanssen clasps his hands in front of him. Bernie tries to keep her gaze fixed on the colonel but finds her eyes drifting back to Agent Campbell, admiring the way she stands like she hasn’t a care in the world, like she hasn’t just knocked a grown man over with her fist. 

“General Patton has said that wars are fought by weapons but they are won by men. We are going to win this war because we have the best men.” 

Hanssen walks down the line and stops briefly in front of Bernie, his head lowering to look at her. She shifts uncomfortably and tries to keep her stance steady. He clears his throat and continues walking. 

“And because they are going to get better. Much better. The Strategic Scientific Reserve is an allied effort made up of the best minds of the free world. Our goal is to create the best army in history, but every army starts with one man.” 

He comes back to the middle of the line and turns to face the soldiers. “At the end of this week we will choose that man. He will be the first in a new breed of super-soldiers.” 

Bernie feels her skin prickle under the fabric of her coat, suddenly feeling too hot. She glances up at Agent Campbell, standing with her hands behind her back and watching Hanssen with an even stare. No one so much as shifts under the Colonel's watch. 

“And those who are chosen will personally escort Adolf Hitler to the gates of hell.”

The reality of it all does hit Bernie then, and she feels a wave of nausea come over her. The ground feels wobbly under feet and she can tell she's swaying. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, looking up to watch Hanssen and instead finding herself looking right into Agent Campbell's eyes. The woman is smiling at her, just the slightest quirk of red lips and squint of the eyes.

_She knows_ , Bernie realizes.

She thinks she should feel a spike in panic at this, but finds her pulse slowing, Hanssen's words fading into background noise.

Then Agent Campbell turns her head back to the Colonel and Bernie snaps back to the present. She feels lighter, a little more confident, a little more stupid. It's enough to make her stand taller, to make her determination solidify to do something impressive, something to show everyone she's capable and amazing.

Bernie floats on air for the next hour, and she's not entirely sure why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More dialogue-heavy chapters and Berena interaction coming up :) Thanks for sticking with me through this bizarre adventure.


	3. The Size of the Fight in the Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boopbedoop sorry this took so long, had some editing issues

Bernie considers herself to be in fairly good shape despite her back problems. She was on her feet all day at the hospital, running up and down stairwells with all manner of instruments and heavy loads in her arms. She rarely got sick, seasonal allergies to flower pollen the worst of her ailments beyond her spine, nothing a box of tissues and an afternoon tea binge didn’t help. 

She finds out very quickly that she is not in fairly good shape. 

They start the soldiers off on a warm up run that feels more like an exercise in torture to Bernie than anything else. At the very least, they’ve given her a new pair of shoes, trainers with the soles intact that ease the strain on the heels of her feet. Nevertheless, the second lap finds her wheezing, the sweat cascading down her forehead no distraction against the way her chest feels like someone is taking a hammer to it. She glances at the other men as they run, first at the men next to her, then at their backs when they pass her on the third lap. She just wants to see someone else panting like a dog, a small beacon of solidarity. Alas, nothing. 

Colonel Hanssen and Agent Campbell drive alongside the pack in a Jeep, Hanssen letting out an occasional biting remark whilst Campbell observes, legs crossed and a clipboard in her hand. Bernie rarely sees her up close anymore, with the Jeep following the pack, not the lone straggler. By the second week, Bernie thinks she’ll never see either the Colonel or Agent Campbell up close again. 

She goes to bed sore and exhausted every night, falling into her cot like a limp ragdoll. The men have all realized she must have been some sort of mistake, the initial teasing and rude jabs fading into silent pity after a few days. 

But, God, does she keep trying. Lying awake at night, Bernie imagines Dom facing the same challenges in some other forsaken army camp in the woods. He’d never been much of a runner, reminding her on their shared shifts that his only exercise consisted of running to catch the train on a bad day.

She smiles imagining the quips he would have for her now, over biscuits together in the morning, eating the dust of the Jeep while everyone else ran ahead, laying on their cots at night groaning at their aches and pains. It’s the thoughts of this imaginary Dom that keep her spirits up when she feels like throwing in the rag and returning to Holby. 

That, and her pure stubbornness to prove that she wasn’t some pity choice and no small amount of guilt at failing her dead father’s memory. She never brings it up with the other soldiers when they compare and share their own family histories in the showers (a place where Bernie has to try her hardest to hide rather than engage), brag about how their uncle so-and-so fought in this-or-that battle in the Great War, etc. etc. 

She wonders if her father did the same thing she’s doing now, elbow deep in mud, crawling under barbed wire that cuts the shirt right off her back. Did his own Marcus Dunn kick over one of the posts holding the whole mess up, trapping him underneath? Bernie feels a small flame of legacy burn in her chest as she uses her ripped shirt to dress the abrasions on her hands that night, a strange glimmer of pride for someone she barely knew.

\--

 

It’s the third week, 22nd day of the grueling endurance run. Bernie is only lagging slightly behind this time, though still struggling for breath by the time she reaches the halted group. They’ve stopped by the flagpole at the drill sergeant’s command, painting far less than she. The drill sergeant gives her a pointed look as she falls in line. 

“Hurry your ass up, Wolfe.” 

She nods, hunching over with her hands on her knees, sucking in all the air she can manage without coughing. 

Hanssen and Agent Campbell are idling in front of the group as usual, Hanssen with his stoic look of indifference and Campbell with her clipboard perched on her lap, a pen dangling from her lips while her hands fix up a stray piece of hair. Bernie’s eyes are always drawn to Agent Campbell’s hair, today done up in a braid that wraps around her head like a delicate crown of roses. Bernie justifies the staring by the fact that there are no other women on the base, and Agent Campbell has very impressive hair styling skills for someone who’s mucking around in the dirt all day. Bernie’s own hair hasn’t been washed properly in weeks and is growing out unevenly, a fact she’ll have to live with since no one carries a spare pair of shears in the barracks. 

“That flag means you’re only at the halfway point!” 

Her reverie is cut short by the grating voice of the drill sergeant. She looks up at the flag, along with everyone else in the group. It sits some thirty feet above them, rippling in the light autumn breeze. They’re all aware it’s the halfway point, Bernie frequently relying on it as a beacon of hope during their runs.

“First man to bring that flag to me gets a ride back with Agent Campbell.” 

_That_ catches all the men’s attention. They scrabble toward the flagpole, Bernie leaping back as men come to it like moths to a flame. They stumble over each other in an attempt to leap upon the stand and shimmy upward. 

“Come on, get up there!” the drill sergeant shouts. 

Marcus Dunn pushes another soldier to the ground and grips the metal pole, hoisting himself about one body length before sliding down onto the ground. 

“That’s what you got? This army’s in trouble, it sure is. Get back up there, Dunn.” 

Marcus Dunn tries, and fails, again. 

“Nobody’s gotten that flag in seventeen years.” The drill sergeant puffs up like some absurd bird, his hat tipping back precariously. He watches the men fruitlessly try and gain purchase on the pole, eventually, waving his hands around. “Come on, fall back in now, fall back.” 

With minor grumbling, the men return to the path and continue their jog. 

“Let’s go, get back in formation. Wolfe, I said _fall in!_ ” 

Bernie remains transfixed on the flagpole, the stone base it’s held up by, and the large bolt holding it all in place. She reaches out and gives the bolt a sharp tug. It slides out with a groan, and Bernie takes a step back. The pole sways and topples over, hitting the dirt with a great metallic clang and kicking up a cloud of dust. Bernie waits for the dust to settle before walking over and plucking the flag from the ground, shaking it off before handing it over to the drill sergeant. 

“Thank you, sir,” she says. 

Agent Campbell’s eyebrows lift to her forehead as Bernie hoists herself over the back of the Jeep and settles into the leather seat. Bernie can’t remember the last time she’d sat in something so heavenly on her back. 

“Well done, soldier,” Agent Campbell says. 

Bernie recoils back against the seat, suddenly becoming all too aware of the closeness between them. Agent Campbell tucks her pen behind her ear as Hanssen revs the engine and the Jeep lurches forward, the scent of something sweet and flowery mixing with the smell of petrol. 

Bernie stays very quiet for the ride back, focusing on the vibrations of the vehicle and her hands pressed up against the leather seats instead of Agent Campbell’s perfume. Her bravado from her flag stunt is squashed by the presence of the woman next to her. It fails, and Bernie keeps stealing looks at Agent Campbell, gaze darting back to the road when their eyes meet. She sees Agent Campbell’s red lip curls into a smile the third time it happens, and Bernie’s heart flutters. 

She doesn’t remember much of the ride back beyond that, the whole incident a fuzzy loop playing over and over in her head as she lies awake in the darkness of the barracks.

\--

 

“Faster, you louses. My grandmother has more life in her, God rest her soul.” 

Agent Campbell prowls the line of men, and Bernie, completing their third set of one-hundred jumping jacks. Bernie is spluttering like an overheated engine, her arms protesting mightily against another lift. 

Colonel Hanssen leans against the Jeep, watching Bernie struggle as the rest of the soldiers keep in count with Agent Campbell’s barking orders. He only turns his head briefly at the sound of footsteps against the gravel. The sound stops just behind him. 

“You’re really not thinking of picking her are you?” he asks. 

He lets the silence marinate for a moment before he looks back at Dr. Hope. The doctor’s face is furrowed in concentration, no doubt observing Bernie’s attempts at pushups. 

“I am more than just thinking about it. It is a clear choice.” 

Hanssen raises a hand to his temple, trying to assuage the pulsing beginning under the skin. 

“When you brought a female nurse—“ 

“She’s a trained trauma surgeon.” 

“—female _trauma surgeon_ with scoliosis onto my army base, I let it slide. I thought she could be useful to you, like a gerbil.” 

Hanssen meets Dr. Hope’s eyes, frowning. 

“I never thought you would pick her.” 

“Get up now, Wolfe, get your arse out of the dirt.” Agent Campbell’s shouts reach across the grounds. 

“Look at that,” says Hanssen. “She’s making me want to cry.” 

Dr. Hope says nothing, his expression remaining neutral as if he hadn’t heard a word Hanssen had said. 

“I am looking for qualities beyond the physical.” 

Hanssen guffaws, crossing his arms. “Do you know how long it took to set up this project?” 

“Yes.” 

“All of the groveling I had to do in front of MP whats-his-name and his bloody committees?” 

“Yes, I know.” Dr. Hope nods seriously. “I am well aware of your efforts.” 

“Then give me something I can work with, Hope! Dunn passed every test we gave him. He’s big, he’s fast, he obeys orders, he’s a soldier.” 

Dunn is currently leading the running pack, grunting louder than anyone else, eyes screwed into an look of intense concentration. 

“He’s a bully,” Dr. Hope says simply. 

“You don’t win wars with niceness, Doctor. You win wars with guts.” 

Hanssen turns away from watching the men and rummages through the back of the Jeep. His hand emerges with a grenade. He plucks the pin from the top, tosses that to the ground, and heaves the grenade into the center of the training men. 

“Grenade!”

\--

 

Bernie hears the heavy thump of metal first like a gunshot in an empty church, Hanssen’s warning a mere echo in her ears. A whirl of chaos erupts, fifty things happening at once as Dunn and most of the other men scatter, the rest following seconds after realizing what was happening. Soldiers duck behind the nearest buildings, throw themselves against walls and curl into a crouch. 

Dom had once told her she had the worst sense of self preservation of anyone he’d ever met. 

Bernie throws herself at the ground, sight never wavering from the grenade as she falls in flow motion toward it. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a blur of red moving in her direction, a glint of sunlight catching the edge of a brown braid coming closer. 

The air leaves her lungs with a pained gasp as she hits the packed dirt, her whole body shuddering against the impact. She curls herself around the explosive, the metal pressed against the insides of her wrists. She closes her eyes, swears her heart stops beating right in that moment.

“Stay away!” she shouts, her voice hoarse. She opens her eyes for a moment and sees Agent Campbell standing only feet away, frozen midstep. 

“Get back!” Bernie shouts. The blood has rushed to her ears, her own voice fuzzy and distorted against the ringing. 

The stillness stretches like a yawn, the only thing registering in her mind is the coolness of the grenade against her frantic pulse. 

It’s been far too long. 

Bernie unstiffens, eyes blinking open and squinting against the sun. 

“It’s a dummy grenade!” someone shouts. 

Bernie uncurls herself, looking down at the undetonated device laying between her hands. She winces as she pulls herself into a seated position, a bruise certainly forming on her hip from the dive. 

She looks up to see Agent Campbell, unmoved from her position before, lips parted and chest rising and falling rapidly. Bernie feels her own chest heave, heart thumping wildly. Her fingers and feet tingle, head light and dizzy from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She looks over and sees Hanssen and Dr. Hope with their eyes fixed on her, Hanssen’s lips pressed together so thinly they almost disappear, and Dr. Hope’s spread into a wide smile. 

Bernie’s brow furrows. 

“Is this a test?” 

Dr. Hope turns his glee onto Hanssen, who in turn narrows his eyes. 

“She’s still skinny.”

\--

 

Bernie stares down at her hands. They rest, palms up, on her knees. The skin is blistered, dry, and flaking off from the abuse they’d endured over the last two weeks. She clenches them into fists, and the joints crackle like wet wood on a fire. The barracks around her are empty. She won. 

A gentle creak sounds and Bernie looks up to see the door open, Dr. Hope’s beard appearing from behind it. He shuts the door with a click and stands just inside the threshold. 

“May I sit?” 

Bernie nods silently. 

Dr. Hope walks over and pulls a bottle from his coat, setting it on the table between him and Bernie before settling down on the cot across from her. 

Bernie twists her fingers together, worrying at her nail beds until a drop of red beads up along the skin. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

“Just one?” 

Bernie tries to laugh at his reply, but her smile doesn’t even reach her lips. Doubt crawls inside her like a burrowing insect, eating away at the rush of being chosen for Project Rebirth. 

“Why me?” 

“Ah, I suppose that’s the only question that matters.” Dr. Hope chuckles and twists the top of the bottle, breaking the seal with a snap that sends the smell of bourbon misting into the air. 

“So many people forget that the first country the Nazis invaded was their own. You know, after the last war, my people struggled…” He pauses, and Bernie feels a twist of guilt for bringing anything up in the first place. “They felt weak, angry, and small. And then Hitler comes along with the marching and big shows and flags and the-“ 

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk about this, it’s clearly—" 

Dr. Hope waves his hands, cutting Bernie off. “I am fine. It’s nice to talk about it with someone who listens.” 

Bernie closes her mouth and clasps her hands back together, nodding for hope to continue. 

“Hitler, he hears of my work, and he finds me. And he says you, you will make us strong. Well, I am not interested.” He shrugs. “So he sends the head of Hydra, the Nazi research division. A brilliant scientist by the name of Johann Schmidt. Now, Schmidt is a member of Hitlet’s inner circle and he’s ambitious. He and Hitler share a passion for occult power and Tuetonic myth. Hitler, he uses these fantasies to inspire his followers, but for Schmidt, a man of science, they are not fantasies. For him, they are real. He has become convinced that there is a great power in the earth left there by the gods, waiting to be seized by a superior man.” 

“He sounds like a charming fellow,” Bernie says. 

“Oh, yes. A very pleasant person to be around. So when he hears about my formula, and what it can do, he cannot resist.” 

“You gave it to him?” 

“Gave it to him, yes, but not willingly. It is hard to say no to a group of Nazis pointing guns at your head. Schmidt wanted to do anything to become that superior man.” 

Bernie’s arms prickle with goosebumps. “Did it work?” 

Dr. Hope’s face shadows, loses the light it had held since she’d had arrived at the camp. 

“Yes, but there were other effects. The serum was not ready. But more important, the man was not ready. The serum amplifies everything that is inside. Good becomes great, bad becomes worse. This is why you were chosen.” 

Bernie looks up from her hands, can feel her blush. Dr. Hope reaches out a hand and squeezes her shoulder. 

“Because a strong man, who has known power all his life will lose respect for that power. But a weak man— or woman— knows the value of strength and knows compassion.” 

“Thanks, I think.” A million thoughts whirl around in her head, a few of which are more questions, a healthy handful of doubt, and a bone-crushing sudden fear that makes her want to pack up and run away as fast as she can. 

“Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing.” Dr. Hopes pours the bourbon into two tin cups. “That you will stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a good woman.” 

Bernie's chest tightens, and she takes a cup and holds it up. “To the little guys.” 

Dr. Hope tips his glass against hers, and she’s about to pour the much-needed liquid courage into her mouth when he lets out a startling noise and Bernie nearly chokes on air. 

“No, no! Wait! What am I thinking? You have a procedure tomorrow, no liquids.” He plucks the cup from her hands and she misses it immediately. 

“Alright.” She frowns, eyeing the open bottle. “Still plenty left, we’ll drink after.” 

Dr. Hope guffaws, raising his cup to his lips and downing the drink. “I don’t have a procedure tomorrow. Drink it after? Drink it now!” 

Bernie can’t be mad at him, not when his eyes sparkle in the dim overhead lights like a child on Christmas. 

“Fine,” she says. “We’ll drink another together tomorrow then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter starts with some Berena, we get some Ric Griffin, and shit starts to hit the fan


End file.
